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I put down the phone, and reach for the button that activates the privacy panels on my windows. Only after they’re in place do I sink down into my desk chair.
Brandon’s dead.
Suspect in his murder.
I hate him.
But he’s dead.
But he’s my brother.
But he raped Chloe.
But I hate him.
I hate him.
I hate him.
I hate him.
But I love him, too.
It’s the last realization that has me resting my head in my hands. And trying to figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to do now.
Chapter 26
“You aren’t going.”
“I absolutely am going.” Chloe stands across from me, eyes narrowed and hands on her hips. She’s got the stubborn look on her face that normally makes me want to kiss her until she’s all warm and pliant and sexy, so fucking sexy.
Except I don’t have it in me right now to kiss her or fight with her or do any of the other things that she and I are usually so good at. Everything feels awkward between us. Not bad, not awful, just a little bit off. Like we’re tuned to a different frequency and what’s between us is just a little bit fuzzy. Just a little bi
t out of focus.
It’s my fault. Of course it is. Everything about the situation between Chloe and me is my fault. She’s been nothing but supportive, nothing but understanding despite the fact that the incident that has me so fucked up is the death of the man who raped her. Who tortured and bullied and hurt her—and encouraged his friends to do the same—again and again and again.
The fact that he’s dead doesn’t change that. Nor does it make me hate him any less. And still I can barely get out of bed in the morning. Still I’m drowning in guilt. Because I did this. I did this.
It’s been seven days since someone walked into my brother’s house and shot him five times with a Ruger 9 mm. Seven days since I found out he was dead and felt nothing. Seven days since the whole fucking world fell apart around me.
I’ve spent every one of those days on the phone with the FBI, the Secret Service, the PI I originally hired to dig up dirt on Brandon and who I now employ to find out who killed him. The need to know what happened is a sickness inside me, a cancer that grows and grows and grows with each day that passes. I have to know if I’m the reason he’s dead. If what I set in motion all those weeks ago is what killed him or if it was just a matter of his past catching up with him. Or both.
The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me that it’s both. That his past and my insistence on vengeance is why they’re burying my baby brother today. And I don’t have a fucking clue how I feel about that—especially when every time I close my eyes, my mother’s words come back to haunt me.
“I didn’t come all the way to Boston to sit in this hotel room while you go face one of the most difficult experiences of your life alone,” Chloe tells me in a voice that means she’s not budging.
Too bad, because I’m not budging, either. Not on this. Never on this. “I didn’t let you come all the way to Boston with me so that you could attend his funeral. There will be press there, dying to get the scoop. Dying to dig up a little more dirt. They’ll jostle you, hassle you, shout things at you all because they want something to lead the six o’clock news. There’s no way I’m exposing you to that.”
“Just because I let you make decisions about my safety most days—because it puts your mind at ease—doesn’t mean you get to tell me what to do. Fuck the press, fuck the past, fuck everything that isn’t you and me, right now. I’m going to that funeral.”
“He raped you! He hurt you! Why would you even want to go somewhere that demands you pay your respects to him? If I were you, I’d want to dance on his fucking grave.”
“My going to that funeral isn’t about Brandon. My going is about you. And it doesn’t matter what he did to me, doesn’t matter how much I despised him. I love you and I’m going to be there for you.”
“I don’t need you to be there for me,” I grate out. It’s the biggest lie I’ve ever told—I need her like I need air, like I need water, like I need light. I hope she buys it anyway.
“Well, tough luck. There’s this thing between us called a marriage contract. You might have heard of it. It means that I stand by you when things go to shit and you do the same for me. And since I know you have no problem stepping up when I’m the one suffering, I have to tell you it makes me a little uncomfortable—and resentful, too—that you won’t let me extend the same courtesy to you.”
